


Dreams of Shaerrawedd

by kaeltale



Series: Half a Millennium of Savoir-faire [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply (see end notes/spoilers), Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/M, Good Reasons to Hate Humans, Podfic Available, Tragedy, Witcher Yule 2017, created by TheHellHunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 23:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13018458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale
Summary: “Va fail,” he breathed. “A’tedd aen elaine dearmen faidh'ar.”...A time of lovely dreams begins.





	Dreams of Shaerrawedd

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to [Dordean](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) and [a_sparrows_fall](http://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall/pseuds/a_sparrows_fall) for your help with the beta/clean up!
> 
> UPDATE: [TheHellHunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHellHunt) has created a gorgeous Youtube podfic/video reading of this story! Please check it out [HERE](https://youtu.be/bb5FReFn64A)! Her voice is absolutely lovely, and her reading of the Elder Speech in this fic so fluid and natural! I am in awe!
> 
> This is a fill for the Witcher Yule 2017 prompt requesting "fan art: Iorveth x Aelirenn, can be NSFW, but doesn't have to be." Technically, not fan art, but I had to write it!

  
  


She held him like the string of a bow, taught and ready to be loosed. Behind them was her palace, the jewel of Shaerrawedd, standing tall and elusive against the pale morning sky. The impression it left was like a parting between lovers, with the promise of return; a fantasy as delicate and ethereal as the towers of the elven city. What lay before them was grounded less in romantic virtues than vengeful pride and bloodthirst.

With a great mustering of will, Iorveth let Aelirenn break the kiss. The look in her eyes as she stepped back was a perfect reflection of his own; resolute steel and fiery brimstone. Her fingers traced the hilt of her blade before she turned to regard those who’d rallied under her banner. The winds picked up, as if on cue, and the White Rose fluttered above them.

She spoke to them of Loc Muinne and the massacre of their friends, lovers, and children. She spoke of how the sages now had fled to Dol Blathanna, abandoning their people and their pride. She spoke of dogs and of wolves, and how she would be counted among those wild and free and vicious to any who’d threaten the pack. And she spoke of a future; one where her own children would not fear mindless slaughter or the plundering of ancestral lands.

“This day shall decide the fate of elves!” Aelirenn roared. “We conquer with courage!”

“Elirena, Elirena!” the dwarves among them started chanting.

“Glorsann a'Aelirenn!” the elves joined in.

Iorveth thought that he would never grow accustomed to her name rejoiced on lips not his.

* * *

She had always favored the sword to the bow, reveling in the intimate dance with death. As Iorveth let his arrows fly, he couldn’t help stealing glimpses of her golden hair flashing in whirls of light amidst black pools of blood-soaked mud. The battlefield was saturated in fresh corpses, and he could only guess at how many had pointed ears or rounded. All that mattered to him in the clamoring chaos was the continued flowing of her form.

Silver and gold entwined and her blade swept over and through, exposing her back momentarily – a fractioned step too far. She was growing exhausted from her efforts, just as he was. Iorveth pelted her foe with rapid-fire shots, three arrows pierced his torso at critical points, and before his spear could find its mark he sank to the ground and joined the multitudes of the dead.

They were too spread out, too disorganized. Their unit had been cut off from the others. Aelirenn had led them into battle with the passion of her voice, but she, like elven kind were wont, preferred to rely on the skills of individuals over the command of a tactician high above the field. She joined in the skirmishing just as every other member of their vanguard.

The warriors of both forces struggled on and the herd of survivors thinned. From their position, Iorveth could not tell what remained of the other units. As the last human fell, Aelirenn took up her banner and climbed the hill that had barricaded them with trembling strides. Iorveth followed behind, as always.

For a brief moment as she reached the precipice the White Rose soared with majesty over the land, and Iorveth felt the pang of victory. No sooner than he allowed his heart to leap, the pole fell out from Aelirenn’s weakened grasp and withered over the horizon. He reached her side and, looking out before them, he saw his death.

The Redanian army called to form ranks, bolstered by a Kaedweni cavalry reserve. The Unicorn King, with all his councilors, strategists, and horn blowers, sat as pompous on his horse as he would on any throne, sure of his triumph. The holding attack had kept the elven vanguard blind to the incoming charge.

Iorveth held Aelirenn’s empty calloused hand in his as the horsemen swept up to meet them.

“Va fail, me minne,” she said to him. “Eigean evelienn deireadh,”  _ everything must end. _

“Va fail,” he breathed. “A’tedd aen elaine dearmen faidh'ar,”  _ a time of lovely dreams begins. _

* * *

He awoke in the glistening halls of Shaerrawedd, with Aelirenn laid out peacefully at his side. Panic filled him as he reached to turn her by the shoulder, but her warm body gave in to his pull and she rolled over to pin him down with laughing eyes.

“Have you heard the beann'shie crying?” she gasped at the expression he wore. “What troubles you, minne?”

“It was a dream. An unpleasant one.”

“Then maybe you need more pleasant memories to chase it away,” she stroked the side of his face and it burned with her touch.

He reached up to feel her stomach. The tiny swell there was yet a secret between them, but she would start showing soon. The blush that touched her cheeks had nothing to do with humility, and her wild eyes met his with a knowing grin.

She leaned down to kiss him, and his mind echoed, as if from another life, shouts of  _ glorsann a'Aelirenn! _

But the world was fading from his mind. The elysian glow from the marble room dimmed. The warmth of her legs straddling him grew cold. Her breath on his cheek turned to sweeping wind.

“What should we name her?” the wind whispered.

* * *

All at once the world blinked back to life, though only half of it. His legs were trapped beneath the remnants of the dead. He must have been counted among them. Twisting and heaving he tried to free himself, and his face flared with searing hot pain whenever it brushed against the other bodies. Why couldn’t he see from his right side?

He heard a voice shouting in the distance – something about “any… there” – and he cried out to it. He wasn’t even sure what he screamed.

A hand gripped him, yanking him free of the carnage. Iorveth struggled to his feet and braced his arm over the shoulder of the one who pulled him up.

“I can’t see who you are.”

“It’s Cedric, Iorveth. You remember me?”

“Cedric? Yes, I remember more than you do, I wager.”

“You were with Aelirenn’s vanguard. Is she…” Cedric could not finish the question.

Iorveth could not answer. He looked to the mound from which he’d been freed, and thought he’d found a flash of golden hair among the dead. He tore himself from Cedric’s hold, and stumbled, crawling on his knees toward it. Pushing aside the shapeless gore, he found the face of another. It was not hers.

“Aelirenn!” he cried out again, one eye searching the pile. Most bodies were so matted with blood and filth, even if they had her features they might be obscured beyond recognition.

“Iorveth,” Cedric followed and grabbed him from behind, “we must go. The healers. We must see the healers.”

“An' badraigh aen cuach,” Iorveth spat. “Leave me here!”

Cedric did not listen. He pulled Iorveth back to his feet, dragging him limp and resistant toward the forest, until Iorveth resigned to move his feet in tandem. Through the canopy he could not see the city, but recognized the smell of smoke thick in the air.

“What of Shaerrawedd?”

Cedric shook his head. “Those who remained in the city… when the dh’oine turned their sights toward it, it was decided we should die with pride. The dh’oine will never take another of our halls. Shaerrawedd is a ruin. Ida saw to it.”

Iorveth said nothing. The Aen Saevherne was here, but she didn’t fight for them. She didn’t save them. Bloede daerienn! Elf or human, mages were all the same. Far too willing to overlook the lives of those deemed insignificant. So far removed from others with their knowledge that they’d forgotten the value of life.

But Aelirenn was not insignificant. She held the fate of all of them, and now they were truly doomed. She held his fate. She had held it, and she took it with her.

_ What should we name her? _

“Rhóswen,” Iorveth whispered back before his tattered face ignited with torturous tears, and in the pain he lost his conscious thoughts.


End file.
